


dangling feet from window frame

by defcontwo



Category: Batman (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Moody Bat-shaped introspection, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:50:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason and Tim, a collection of moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. we have paved these streets with moments of defeat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaptainClintSpiderBalder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainClintSpiderBalder/gifts), [flowersdontlast (minigami)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minigami/gifts).



> I am perpetually writing little bits and pieces of JayTim things for Sara and María over on tumblr and figured I might as well collect them all together in one place. More or less unrelated and not in any chronological order, but you can pretend they're all pretty much in the same 'verse.

Tim awakens with a crick in his neck, back pressed up against the sofa, eyes crusted over in the mid-afternoon light. It takes him a second to reorient himself, to remember the hows and the whys of why he fell asleep on the floor. 

A team of assassins sent by Ra’s al Ghul. Jason taking a poisoned bullet to the shoulder that was meant for Tim. The weight in his stomach like a stone, the adrenaline rush of panic, the crack of bone breaking bone, the assassin’s bloody mouth, broken teeth grinning up at him, as he finally gave up the antidote. 

The journey back to Tim’s loft had taken an hour or a million years, Tim’s still not quite sure which, it all passed by in a blur, Jason an almost dead weight against him. He’d had to cut Jason out of his uniform to get at the wound, sure fingers cleaning and stitching and when Tim looks down, now, he sees his hands are covered in bruises, what looks like a newly cracked open cut across his left knuckles and he stretches them open and closed and ignores the trembling. 

It’s been many long years since he last went to temple but he mouths a prayer anyways, rolls the words around in his mouth, strange and foreign to him now but comforting still. Behind him, Jason is stretched out on the couch, shoulder wrapped in bandages that’ll need checking soon, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. 

Tim heaves himself up from the floor, taking a minute to stretch, hearing the cracks and pops before moving into the kitchen and digging out some eggs and bacon to cook. He goes through his morning routine, practiced and familiar, the coffee maker crackling away as Tim drags a hand through his hair, feels his fingers get tangled on knots that he can’t be bothered to tug out. 

"Am I hallucinating? Are you cooking?" 

Tim whirls around to find Jason easing himself into a kitchen chair gingerly, deep bags under his eyes and looking like so much hell but alive and whole, still. 

"You lost a lot of blood last night. You need to eat something. How are you feeling?" 

"Like I’ve been hit by a goddamn eighteen wheeler," Jason says but then he shrugs, flashing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Not a crowbar, though, so could be worse." 

Tim shakes his head, biting his tongue and tasting copper. He could do with a little less death jokes today. 

"I’ll try not to add salmonella on top of everything else but you know me, no promises." 

Jason snorts. “If I finish this day with food poisoning, I will burn that stupid Blade Runner t-shirt that you love so much and then we’ll see who’s laughing, then.” 

Tim scowls, arms wrapped around himself as if mimicking armor. “I still can’t believe you don’t like Blade Runner.” 

Jason rolls his eyes exaggeratedly like sometimes he just can’t believe the shit that comes out of Tim’s mouth. 

"Really, we’re gonna have this argument now? C’mere, you loser," Jason says, lifting an arm up as if beckoning and Tim unfolds himself, shuffling over until he’s standing over Jason and then Jason is reaching up and pulling Tim down into his lap, pulling them flush together, forehead to forehead and something in Tim loosens, settles. His fingers tug through the soft curls at the nape of Jason’s neck and they both could do with some mouthwash, probably, but neither of them are complaining. 

"Close call," Tim murmurs, proud when his voice doesn’t shake. It’s a near thing. "Haven’t had one of those in a while." 

"Yeah, well, it’s your turn to bleed all over the couch next time," Jason says, voice just as quiet. 

Tim huffs a laugh, shifting a hand down to press lightly against Jason’s bandaged shoulder. “Nah, I’m good. You seem to manage just fine.” 

"Asshole," Jason grumbles. "Try not to burn my eggs." 

"No promises, Jay." 

Tim burns the eggs, but. 

Neither of them can bring themselves to care much.


	2. clock keeps ticking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim versus the art history essay, a struggle in several parts.

There are a lot of things that Tim regrets. Things he shouldn’t have said, moments he would take back in a heartbeat if he could — he’s got a list a mile long and then some, the sort of things that keep him up at night when he lets them.

Quitting his job at WE to go back to school is not one of those regrets. But if he’d seen this essay for intro to art history coming, he thinks maybe it could have been.

Just a little bit.

—-

He’s spread out on his living room floor, surrounded by notes and papers, and he’s about five hours and three red-eyes into this essay, which — which is really the only good way to measure how this essay is going because the word count is clearly for shit.

The third cup of coffee was conspicuously purchased from a different cafe around the corner so that he wouldn’t get the same half judgey and half extremely concerned looks that he got after his second extra shot red-eye of the day.

He’s thinking about going to the store down on the corner for a couple of energy drinks but he’s pretty sure that he’s reached the point where anything else he drinks will either cease to impact him entirely or stop his heart, and besides, these are all just thinly veiled excuses to get him out of writing.

So, he’s just going to stay put and keep on working.

—-

Hour whatever.

Tim goes for the energy drinks, slinking to the counter with a couple of cans and a bag of packaged donuts in tow.

The woman behind the counter raises an eyebrow at him and he refuses to be even a little bit ashamed.

What, like he’s the weirdest thing she’s seen all night?

This is Gotham, c’mon.

—-

The thing is, part of him feels embarrassed. He is nothing if not a motivated person. See the target, assess all possible routes to the target, pick the best one, accomplish goal, one-two-three. The only reason he left this essay to the last minute was because he’d been juggling a heavy case-load on top of school and he just sort of assumed that after taking down an up and coming drug cartel and catching a serial killer, it’d be a piece of cake.

Tim forgets, sometimes, that his best motivation comes entirely from a place of interest and desire. Motivating himself to both research and then write an essay about the Renaissance is…somewhat more difficult than anticipated.

Tim tugs a hand through his long, tangled hair and lets out a frustrated growl. “Great, I’m a cliched student statistic. Way to be, Timbo.”

"You’re aware of the fact that you’re talking to yourself, right?"

Tim looks up sharply, nearly upsetting his precarious pile of notes and cans as his arms flail a little in the process.

"Have you heard of a little thing called knocking, Jason?” Jason slouches against the door jamb, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I did knock. About five times, Captain Oblivious."

Tim shakes his head. “Oh. Well, uh. Look, this really isn’t a good time, Jay.”

"I know," Jason says. "S’why I’m here. Still working on that paper, huh, Boy Genius?"

"Yes," Tim grits out.

"Can’t seem to find the motivation?"

"Do you have a point to this line of questioning or…?"

Jason rolls his eyes. “Always so snippy, Mister Drake. You forget I know you. You’ll get this done a lot faster with the proper motivation.” “

"Which would be…?"

Jason crouches down until he’s at Tim’s level on the floor, meeting Tim with a level gaze.

"See, here’s the thing, right," Jason starts, and then he clears his throat a bit to cover up the space where his voice almost cracks which is the only tell Tim has to let him know that Jason isn’t feeling nearly as smooth about this as he wants to be, and Tim resists the urge to call him out on it because, well.

He wants to hear what Jason has to say.

"I figure you have a couple of options here, Timbo. You can sit out here all night moaning and whining and hating yourself while taking periodic Fruit Ninja breaks like the great big shitnerd you are. Or I can go in the other room, settle in with a good book and wait for you to finish and when you’re done, maybe I can let you see me wearin’ that thing I bought last week.”

Tim swallows hard, not even a little bit aware of the fact that he’s white-knuckling a notebook. “I can be done in an hour if I push at it.”

"See what I mean, Timbo? _Motivation_.”

"You could be a little less smug about it, you know," Tim mutters. "Jackass."

But he’s not angry, not even a little bit.

(He finishes the essay in 45 minutes).


	3. 10 a.m. automatic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An enigma wrapped in a mystery shrouded in goddamn rich white boy daddy issues.

They’re tucked into an overhang on the roof of Jason’s latest safe house, rain crashing down around them, a proper Gotham storm putting a chill that creeps right down into Jason’s bones, seeping through the too-thin layers of leather and jersey. 

Tim shrugged on Jason’s red hoodie, just like he always does, and he’s a couple of steps away from just walking off with it, probably, just like he does with everything else. Jason would complain, but. 

It’s too big on Tim — sleeves hanging down past his wrists, hood large and baggy, hanging low over his forehead and into his eyes. The overall effect is something — something slight, fragile, like Tim could be snapped in half. 

It couldn’t be further from the truth. Jason likes that, he guesses. Likes that Tim shrugs on facades like other people shrug on a new suit, that it’s second nature for him to misdirect. Jason’s no closer to figuring Tim out than he was the first day they met. 

It pisses him off, a lot, but. It’s fun, also. 

"It’s fucking cold out here," Tim bites out, folding his arms across his chest. 

"You didn’t have to come," Jason points out. "It’s not like you smoke." 

Tim shrugs, a small, thin, economical movement and then, “can I bum one?” 

Jason laughs, a harsh sound that comes out wet and he coughs, reflexively. He’s coming down with something, a winter cold, probably. This is the last thing he should be doing with his time. “You kiddin’ me?”

Tim just raises an eyebrow. 

Jason digs out the pack of marlboros from his jacket pocket, banging the pack against his palm until one pops out and he digs it out, places it between his lips and lights it neatly, inhaling and then breathing out, taking the time to blow the smoke into Tim’s face. He doesn’t flinch. 

Jason’s not surprised. He didn’t really think he would, anyway. 

Jason holds out the pack to Tim wordlessly, eyes daring. Tim huffs a small laugh in that way he does, like he thinks everything Jason does is meant to be fucking hysterical, before leaning forward, removing a cigarette from the pack with his teeth while nimble fingers pluck the lighter out of Jason’s hands. Tim leans back against the wall and lights it, tucking the lighter into his front pocket before Jason can protest. Jason waits and waits for the moment, the punchline, the hacking cough and the disgusted face but it never comes. 

"What the hell, Drake?" 

"Hmm? Oh. Caroline Hill." 

"What?" 

"Caroline Hill. Her mother left their family when she was five years old, took off for Paris to become a writer. Caroline visits her every summer for a month. The summer of her fifteenth birthday, she started smoking. Gauloises, only, in bars with French boys who didn’t kiss as well she thought they should. She still does, sometimes, when she’s stressed. Even though she’s a med student and she should know better.” 

Jason stares. “You realize that doesn’t answer my fucking question, right?” 

Tim hums, taking another drag, thin fingers holding the cigarette carefully, a fine contrast of pale on white. “It does, actually.” 

An enigma wrapped in a mystery shrouded in goddamn rich white boy daddy issues. There is something inexplicable, here, in the hushed quiet of their world. Shivering rain and cold, dirty brick and Tim’s cheshire cat grin around the butt of the cigarette, looking all for the world as if this is something he does every day. In another life, he would’ve made a hell of a con man, probably. 

It’s fucked up, probably, that this makes Jason want to press Tim into the cold brick and kiss him until he makes sense, until all his secrets are laid bare, passed between them like so much smoke. It’s a lost cause, Jason knows, Tim is too good at this and Jason never has been, not with his stupid fucking heart on his sleeve like so many scars. 

It’s fucked up, sure, but Jason does it anyways, a smirk curling around the edges of Tim’s lips as he grinds out the butt on the brick wall behind him, as he lets Jason crowd him into the corner and when they kiss, Tim tastes like tobacco and something else, something that Jason can’t put his finger on, another mystery, and isn’t that just typical. 

—-

A week later, he crashes into his safe house, dead tired but wired as all hell, craving a cigarette and cursing the fact that he hasn’t gotten around to buying a new pack when he spots a brand new, unopened pack of Gauloises sitting on his bed. 

He almost throws them out because — because it’s the principle of the thing, really, but. 

"Fucking Timothy Jackson Drake," he mutters, tearing open the plastic. 

Hey, it's not like he's going to turn down free smokes.


	4. raise his flag in stormy weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You don’t write, you don’t call. This isn’t a bed and breakfast, Jason. Where the hell have you been?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't mean to keep beating up on Jason quite so much. Call this the before to your before and after in Tim's late night medical skills.

Tim pops the cap off his fourth Brooklyn Lager of the night, taking a deep swig before he sets the bottle down on his kitchen counter, rubbing idly at his eyes. He’s got shit to do, probably, an essay to write and case files to go through but Bernard’s face looms sharp in his memory, hurt and closed off and Tim winces, thinks about what could have been if he lived a different life, was a different person. 

They could’ve had something, once, if he wasn’t so bone deep buried in regret, grief swallowing him whole, running away to Blüdhaven and dozens of ignored calls piling up and turning themselves into the uncomfortable run-in in the middle of the Gotham U Library earlier this afternoon. 

He’s not as good at letting people in as he’d like to be. He’s working on it, but. 

Some causes are lost. Some cases you gotta slam shut and walk away from. 

"Ugh," Tim groans, rolling the beer bottle between both hands. "Ugh," an answering voice groans out from the direction of the window and Tim’s head snaps up, suddenly alert, as a moaning and bleeding Jason Todd crawls through his window and collapses to his kitchen floor. 

"You’re gonna get blood all over my linoleum floor," Tim snaps because it seems like as a good a thing to say as any, given — well, given the disparate pieces of their violent, haphazard history, but he’s reaching for the first aid kit anyways. 

"You’re a real charmer, Drake," Jason spits out, grinning through the blood in his teeth as he hauls himself into an upright position. "So glad I came to you for help. Have you considered becoming a nurse? You’ve got a hell of a bedside manner." 

Tim looks Jason up and down, gaze careful and assessing. Bruised ribs, probably, and a broken nose to boot. The nose will have to be set but that’s about all Tim can do, leaving the rest to the frozen packages of peas sitting in his freezer. 

"You don’t write, you don’t call. This isn’t a bed and breakfast, Jason. Where the hell have you been?" 

Jason shrugs and winces with it. “Would you believe me if I told you I went on a worldwide journey to find myself and get my head on straight?” 

"I don’t know," Tim says, raising an eyebrow. "Did you spend a night out in the desert, trying to commune with spirits?" 

"No," Jason says dismissively but the flush rising in his freckled cheeks kind of says yes. "Well. There was a desert. Also some mountains. Maybe a few oceans. Traveled and fucked around until I ran out of money." 

"And then you came home?" 

"Fuck no," Jason says. "Then I crashed on Donna’s couch eating ramen noodles and watching daytime television until she kicked me out. Then I came home, peacefully I might add, only to be accosted by a bunch of gangsters holding a grudge.” 

"Yeah, it’s funny how that works. You take out a bunch of gangsters and try to run your own drug cartel in Gotham City, people kinda hold it against you. Who knew?" 

Jason makes a face at him but doesn’t protest. 

"You know, if you wanted sympathy, you should’ve gone to Alfred." 

"Please, Alfred is the scariest fucker out of all of us and you know it." 

Tim feels the corner of his lips turn up in spite of himself. Jason’s not wrong there. 

They make annoyed faces at each other, Jason wincing and groaning exaggeratedly as Tim sets his nose, Tim huffing impatiently like it’s the last thing he wants to be doing with his Friday night which — well, it kind of is but it’s also not the worst thing he could be doing with his Friday night.

They’re used to this, the both of them, the late nights and the aches and pains. It’s about as close to a comfortable routine as they’re ever going to get. 

They might not know how to talk to each other but maybe they can patch each other up as well as they can tear each other apart — that’s got to be a step in the right direction, Tim thinks, and then immediately shakes his head wryly because how fucked is that? 

"Hey, Drake, what’s with the loner drinking? Batgirl break up with you again?" 

"No, uh…" Tim waffles, a bit, almost doesn’t say anything but — but who else is he gonna tell? He needs to learn how to let people in more. Jason isn’t exactly ideal but he’s here and maybe right now, that’s all Tim needs. 

"Surprisingly, me and Steph are fine, for once. No, it’s just this. This guy I went to high school with? He kinda had a thing for me and I kinda had a thing for him, I guess, but nothing ever happened because…" Tim waves his hand in front of him, somehow trying to convey simultaneously "gore" and "Gotham" and "I was a grief-stricken wreck of a human being over my dad and my ex-girlfriend" but he’s pretty sure there’s no words for what that year did to him. He lets the silence, the grimace that’s crossed his face, speak for him. Jason’s a Gothamite, he’ll figure it out. 

"Anyways," Tim says, clearing his throat. "I ran into him today and it uh, it sucked. Blah blah, cry me a river Drake, et cetera." 

Jason makes a humming sound. “Didn’t realize you played for both teams, Drake.” 

"Seriously? That’s what you got out of that whole story? You’re not gonna be an asshole about this, are you? It’s too late and I have a personal rule against beating up the wounded."

Jason grins and it’s all teeth. “Nah, you really don’t. But if you’re wondering, dear Timothy, you know. Me too. Or whatever. Birds of a feather really do flock together, eh?” 

They stare at each other for a few seconds before Tim snorts, his whole body moving with it. “So glad we had this bonding moment, Jason. I’m gonna get another beer, do you want one?” 

Jason makes an aborted head shake, like he’s thinking of saying no but changes his mind, the oddity of the question seeming to override any knee jerk rejection Jason might have had. He shrugs and the leather of his jacket creaks with it. “Sure, why not.” 

Tim reaches into the fridge, grabbing the remaining two bottles from the six pack. He’s gonna be annoyed in the morning when he wakes up and sees that he left the cardboard casing empty in the fridge but he can’t be bothered with it right this second. 

"This is the part where you ask if you can crash on my couch, right?" 

"Well, not if you’re gonna be an ass about it, I’m not." 

Tim pushes off from where he’s leaning against the counter, holding his beer bottle loosely in one hand. “There’s frozen peas in the freezer for your ribs and noodles in the fridge, it’ll be like you never left Donna’s. Try not to bleed on my couch too much.” 

"Do I get mints on my pillow in the morning?" Jason asks, a cheeky grin working its way around the worn, tired edges of his face. 

Tim ignores him. 

-

"Hey, Timbo, I’ve been meaning to ask — what do I owe you for drinking your beer and eating all your food?" 

Bruce and Dick look up from where they were poring over case reports, eagle-sharp eyes trained on Jason and Tim. 

"Since when do you two hang out?" Dick asks, voice contained in that way that lets you know it would’ve been a strangled yell otherwise. 

Jason waggles his eyebrows and Tim pinches the bridge of his nose, preemptively. 

"What, Timothy didn’t tell you? He let me crash at his place last week. Stayed all night and rocked his world." 

"He slept on the couch," Tim breaks in pointedly, "and bled all over the upholstery just like I told you not to.” 

"Yeah okay, Nerd Wonder, next time I’ll try to be a little more graceful with how I bleed on your furniture because that’s how that works." 

Tim rolls his eyes but warms, unexpectedly, at the thought of next time.


	5. capernoited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for somehowunbroken | capernoited | slightly intoxicated or tipsy.

Tim is. 

Tim is —- something. Sort of glowing. A little fuzzy. Fuzzy like — like that expensive champagne Bruce always serves at parties and pretends to like but always makes a face at whenever he’s turned away from guests, every damn time, and he thinks that no one can tell but Tim always, **always** can. 

Drunk, Tim is drunk, that’s the word he was looking for. He screws his eyes shut, trying to remember how he got here and all he comes up with is the faint memory of Cassie laughing, a line of shot glasses stood between them. 

Drinking contest with a demigoddess. Not recommended. 

Tim slumps against the window to his apartment, folding his legs under him on the fire escape where Cassie left him. He could probably undo the security settings if he really wanted to but he doesn’t really want to. Instead, he lifts a fist and starts banging on the glass. 

A minute later, Jason’s face looms close through the window pane, face drawn tight and annoyed, and Tim bangs on it one more time just to be a shit. The window gets shoved open and Jason sticks his head out. 

"If you’re gonna be an asshole, I _will_ leave you out here." 

"No, you won’t," Tim says, and pushes himself through the window, losing his balance halfway through and sending them both crashing to the living room floor, Jason hitting the carpet with a thud and Tim landing square on top of him. 

"I fuckin’ hate you sometimes, you know that," Jason says, groaning, and Tim remembers dimly that Jason took a hard fall two nights ago during a fight that left the upper-half of his back tender and bruised and he'll feel a little more sorry about this in the morning, probably. 

Tim pats his chest. “Blame Cassie, she was the one who gave me the tequila.”


End file.
